Blood Song

“He called forth the lightning and the village burned. The people fled to the river but he swelled it with rain until the banks burst and carried them away. Still his vengeance was not sated and he brought down a blast of wind from the far north to encase them in ice. And when the ice had set, he walked across it until he found the face of his father the blacksmith, frozen in terror for all time.

“No one knows what became of him, although some say on the coldest nights, in a place where it’s said a village once stood, you can hear laughter echoing through the woods, for that is how it is with those who give themselves over to the Dark so completely, release from life is denied them, and the Beyond closed to them for ever more.”

Al Sorna fell silent, his expression thoughtful as he returned his gaze to the sword in his lap. I had a sense that he attached some importance to this lurid tale, something in the gravity with which he had related the story spoke of a significance I couldn’t discern. “You believe this story?” I asked.

“They say all myths have some kernel of truth at their heart. Perhaps in time, a learned fellow like you could find the truth in this one.”

“Folklore is not my field.” I set aside the parchment upon which I had set down the tale of the Witch’s Bastard. It would be several years before I read it again, by which time I had good cause to bitterly regret not following his suggestion.

I reached for fresh pages, looking at him expectantly.

He smiled. “Let me tell you how I first came to meet King Janus.”

Chapter 1

They began riding late in the month of Prensur. Their horses were all stallions, no more than two years old, youthful mounts for youthful riders. The pairing was done under Master Rensial’s supervision, his more extreme behaviour thankfully in check today, although he muttered constantly to himself as he led each of them to their mount.

“Yes, tall, yes,” he mused, surveying Barkus. “Need strength.” He tugged Barkus by the sleeve and led him to the largest of the horses, a hefty chestnut stallion standing at least seventeen hands. “Brush his coat, check his shoes.”

Caenis was led to a fleet looking dark brown stallion and Dentos a sturdy, dappled grey. Nortah’s mount was almost completely black with a blaze of white on his forehead. “Fast,” Master Rensial muttered. “Fast rider, fast horse.” Nortah regarded his horse in silence, his reaction to most things since his return from the infirmary. Their constant attempts to engage him in conversation were met with shrugs or blank indifference. The only time he seemed to come alive was on the practice field, displaying a new found ferocity with sword and pole-axe that left them all bruised or cut.

Vaelin’s own mount turned out to be a sturdy, russet coloured stallion with a cluster of scars on his flanks. “Broken,” Master Rensial told him. “Not bred. Wild horse from the north lands. Still got some spirit left, needs guidance.”

Vaelin’s horse bared its teeth at him and whinnied loudly, the shower of spit making him step back. He hadn’t ridden a horse since leaving his father’s house and found the prospect oddly daunting.